Tag Archives: Coachella

The Coachella Chronicles OR The time I took a vitamin B12 shot in the ass from a male nurse on mushrooms

7 May

If you’re anything like me, and missed out on the part of high school in which you were supposed to be dabbling in hallucinogens while helplessly making out with a kid with purple hair at the Grateful Dead concert because you were too busy being an enormous band dork, then you probably really like going to music festivals as an adult. I know this because I, a former enormous band dork, had probably an illegal amount of fun at Coachella a few weeks ago. (It actually WAS an illegal amount of fun, but never you mind about that, interwebs!)

I had been pretty unbelievably excited about attending for many months, and when it was finally time to go, I packed all my bathing suits and pink shorts and $5 teal zebra-print sunglasses into a suitcase and flew off to Los Angeles, wristband clutched desperately in my sweaty fingers. I was going to get a tan! I was going to dance! I was going to hang out with my friends and listen to Radiohead and drink beers and pick up lightsticks off the ground and watch M83 and.. and… and…

I was going to get the worst sore throat I’ve had since I made out with a dorm kid in college and caught strep.

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After arriving late the night before the festival began and riding all the way to Indio sandwiched between two members of a giggly couple high on pot lollipops and sundry other prescription pills that I shall call Thurston and The Neon Indian (The Neon Indian doth not like clothes that do not glow in the dark), I arrived at the apartment I planned to share with The Pharmacist, Party Monster, Gay Meow Meow and the Naughty Nurse. Three of these last few you might recognize as my former roommates (The Party Monster had a hand in that time I ate a bull penis… ). I rarely see the Naughty Nurse as he is busy being a fabulous gay nurse in LA and only comes to New York City once or twice a year.

After our first day of wandering around the festival, which really is a magical fairyland of adult attractions (“Look at that man swinging upside down by his leg in the drum and bass tent!  Let’s go, let’s go. I can hear Calvin Harris! GOOD LORD IS THAT A GIANT GLOWING SHARK ON TOP OF A REMOTE CONTROL CAR??!), my throat swelled up to epic proportions, leaving me whispering to my friends like zombie plague patient zero.

I muddled through the rest of the day’s concerts (vowing to henceforth take every painkiller I could get my little hands on), and finally ended up lying back in the front seat groaning and trying not to swallow while we waited for Thurston and the Neon Indian to find their way back to the car (Unsurprisingly, they spent a lot of time… er… lost).

“How are you feeling, girl?” asks the Naughty Nurse.

“Throat hurts… Ok though,” I stage whisper, then groan.

“I have the perfect thing. You are so lucky. I only brought one and I’m gonna give it to you. You’re gonna be 100 percent tomorrow.”

“What. What is it?” I ask, knowing full well that the Naughty Nurse is actually a nurse who carries a medical kit with him.

“Vitamin B12 shots! All the celebrities do them. I only have one, but it’ll make you feel totally healthy by morning.”

“I don’t know about a shot right now… we’re all pretty fucke…”

“Trust me,” says the Naughty Nurse. And The Party Monster snickers.

(In our defense, we did all manage to keep our flip-flops on)

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Back at the apartment, the Naughty Nurse calls me downstairs.

“Lie down on the floor and pull your pants down, and don’t look at this,” he says, pulling out the biggest needle I have ever seen.

“Ha. Like that’s the first time I’ve heard THAT!” I say.

He flicks the needle a couple of times and swipes an alcohol swab across my ass.

“Ok, one…. twooo….”

“Jesus Christ, don’t count, what’s wrong with you? Just do it before I freak out.”

I feel a pop as the needle jabs through my skin and at least several layers of ass muscle. Despite the many MANY beers I have consumed to make my throat feel better, it hurts like the bejesus.

“OW. OW. OW. OWWWWWW. FUCK. OW.”

He pulls the needle out. “All done! Wait. Whoa, this needle is big.”  The Naughty Nurse starts laughing. “This is an 18-gauge needle, hahahahaha. Fuck I am so high right now.”

“I. What?! I hate you!” I wad up a bunch of tissue paper and press it against my ass, which is continuing to bleed. Finally I wad up a bunch of toilet paper in the waistband of my shorts and walk upstairs, wincing.

“Did he stick a giant needle in your ass?” asks the Party Monster, sighing in front of the fridge.

I pout. “Yes, and now my throat and my butt hurt.”

“Yeah,” he says, looking wistfully out the window as he pours himself a glass of gatorade. “He’s done that to me like 5 times.”

“WERE YOU GONNA MENTION THAT?”

“Girl,” says the Party Monster. “Not letting N.N. shoot you in the ass with a giant needle is something you got to learn on your own.”

But then the next day I did feel better. And we were all friends again in time for Radiohead.

Coachella. Teachin people bout life the hard way since 2012.

*pictures, despite being really awesome, have been omitted to protect the guilty*

Money: It doesn’t grow on trees. Cause that shit is a root. OneBad, that doesn’t even make sense. Shit, is this thing still on?

14 Jan

Hi y’all!

My friend No Pantsu, who you all may remember from the time he unceremoniously signed me up for military-style torture, IMed me the other day in a tizzy about my latest post.

“Your New Year’s Eve sounded SCARY,” he said. “But I don’t understand. Are there really ghosts in your basement?”

“Don’t be silly, No Pantsu, ghosts aren’t real.”

“Well then what was the laughing you heard coming from the bottom of the stairs?!”

“Oh! Gosh, I guess I never cleared that up. That turned out to be my downstairs neighbor guffawing at old episodes of 30 Rock. My roommates told me after they came home and went down to the basement in a troupe to turn the lights back on, then found me cowering under my blanket like a six-year-old.”

“Ahhh.”

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So let that be a lesson to you, readers. There are no such things as ghosts.

Rat kings, however: Real as fuck

On account of not being real, ghosts are a lot less scary than what I did today! Remember the part where I talked about having basically been butt poor since I moved to New York four years ago cause I had the admirable foresight to join the print media industry at the very beginning of its death/an international recession/the end of the world?

Well.

I’m still pretty broke, but now that I freelance a bunch and don’t live in an apartment with 14 people in an area NY Magazine accused of having the highest rapes-per-capita ratio in the entire city, I thought I’d do something nice for myself to reward myself for all my hard work.

See, all my friends are doing quite well for themselves: Party Monster is working on commission for Allsaints Spitalfields, and those (beautiful, beautiful) clothes practically sell themselves. The Pharmacist hawks diamonds for a living. Gay Meow Meow is slinging drinks in midtown and dancing in music videos.  So they go to, like, a $150 concert a week.

And then I’m like, no NOOOO, y’all go! Hey! Yeah! Have a really good time! It’s cool that I can’t go…. No, don’t worry! I’ve got, you know, underwear… I need….to sort. It’s really important! Seriously, I don’t even mind!

*Gets drunk on $5 beers at the corner bar that serves free pizza*

So today, I thought to myself, “Fuck it, OneBad, you only live once. Go ahead and buy a $250 Coachella ticket.”

After waiting for an eternity in the virtual line, I finally get in, and it keeps declining my credit card because my phone number in the system is wrong.  Finally, I’m so frustrated I pull out the debit card. “Fuck you! System.  You don’t like that card? I’ll just pay in straight CASH! Because I am a BALLER!” I think (This is inaccurate, it seems).

I’m so excited to get to the purchase screen that I barely notice the $70 in fees they tack onto the damn thing, until I look at my bank account later and wince. Then I get an email from Party Monster, which looks like this:

“The plan is to get a solid crew (10 people max) to take over a house and MTV Beach House that shit to the ground! I’ve found a couple of reasonable places all around the $3800-4500 mark. So let’s do the math kids… that comes to roughly $380-450 a person.

THE CATCH…

Each property that I’ve been looking at has a security deposit coming in around $3000. Making our grand total for the house UP FRONT MAX $7500.
 
10 people
$750 up front, but only $450 after security deposit return”

At which point I panicked and ran around in a circle and fell down and vomited. (ok, not really) But then I was like, you know what, I should just burn the remaining $2 in my wallet for good measure. Stick it in a little pile in the corner and roast a marshmallow over it and cackle like I’m the 1%.

But I’m too scared.  What if I run out of money and those two dollars are the only thing standing between me and starvation?  (I once read that people who have been poor for a long time think this way permanently. And if Great Depression stories are to be believed, they also tend to hoard food–which is the excuse I’m using for the nest of year-old McDonald’s junior cheeseburgers I’m lying in right now in my underwear.)

So I just sniffed it instead.

Mmmmmm. Mooooonnneeeyyyy.

(P.S. Seriously, anybody want me to write some shit for them in exchange for money? I write real good. Promise!)